Maintenance
by palomino333
Summary: Simmons is fixing his hand when Grif walks in on him. Grif/Simmons Rated for language.


This is my very first slash fic. I got inspired to write about this pairing after watching Red vs Blue. I own nothing.

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Simmons should've known better than to try to make it through one morning without cursing. When one's team member was Dexter Grif, swearing wasn't a bad habit; it was a daily occurrence. This morning, however, the maroon soldier wanted to put off running that gauntlet by using his free time to clean the Warthog. Plus, it also would be yet another way to appease his leader. Two birds with one stone.

After a few hours, Simmons was beginning to wonder just how well Sarge thought of this vehicle. Grif's cigarette butts were rampant inside, along with Donut's sentiments written in pink (or light red in Donut's opinion), such as "I've got two tickets for Wicked! Whoever wants to come, write your name here!" It took FOREVER to take his writings off.

Simmons, now with a cramped left hand in serious need of oil, wondered if Donut would like to have "RED SUCKS!" written on his visor in Sharpie. Thanks to the rookie, his hand would be useless until repaired because of the metal and organic parts fighting to do respectively self-heal. It was beginning to hurt like hell.

Finally finished with his grueling task, Simmons resolved to make that plan a reality after doing maintenance work on his hand, as well as grabbing a bite to eat.

XXXXXX

After picking up a can of motor oil and few tools, Simmons headed off to the base's rather minute mess hall. The interior revealed signs of activity. Dirty plates were currently marinating in the sink, and the table looked as if it had been wiped down. The maroon soldier rolled his eyes. If Donut wanted to do something nice, could he at least have the mental capacity to remember to finish the job?

Deciding it was better to multi-task, he grabbed a sandwich, and headed over to the table. After laying the food item next to the extra tools and motor oil, the cyborg proceeded to unlock his hand.

Gritting his teeth, and groaning here and there at the pain, he removed his left arm's armor, spreading it neatly on the table until the appendage was free.

It was now time for the "fun" part. Carefully, he positioned a screwdriver over the screws on his left wrist and untwisted them from its circumference, one by one until there was nothing holding the "skin" on.

He discarded the screwdriver. Placing two fingers underneath into the wires and metal, and begun to feel around for what was wrong.

"Jesus, Simmons, you're so bored that you have to play Operation on yourself?" came a mocking voice.

The soldier in question narrowed his dark eyes, not taking them away from his hand. Whether he liked it or not, it was time to face the inevitable. "Shut the hell up, Grif."

Finding the area he needed to fix, Simmons flipped his hand over, and pried its covering off.

"Nasty. I can't believe you let Sarge screw you over on that," Grif muttered.

Simmons gave his team member, who was leaning in the doorway, a scathing look. "If I hadn't done that, you'd be six feet under."

Green eyes rolled at him. "Please. You would've done it anyway. Let's not forget whose lips are surgically sewn to Sarge's ass."

"And you're hopelessly addicted to rotting my lungs and corroding my liver. Don't even think about it, Grif," Simmons warned as the orange soldier began to pull a cigarette from a pack he taken out.

"What'll happen? You'll weld me to the wall? Please."

"Nope. I just won't let you have my sandwich."

"After you bit into it? No fucking way."

Simmons turned back to his work. "Okay, guess you'll just have to make one on your own."

An exasperated sigh came. "Fine."

A smug smile lit the maroon soldier's face as he muttered, "Predictable as ever."

That's when his can of motor oil vanished off the table. "Grif, you lousy son of a bitch, give that back now!" He growled.

"Guess you weren't expecting this, were you?" Grif asked as he casually tossed the can back and forth between his hands. The sandwich was now long gone.

"I mean it! I can't fix my hand without it!" Simmons yelled, banging his free hand on the table for emphasis.

"Then go get more." Grif tossed it up in the air, nearly giving its owner a heart attack as he barely caught it before it hit the floor.

"That's the only one I have, idiot. Red Command hasn't sent more yet."

"Well, try to get it off me!" The orange soldier teased, holding the can out and then snatching it away before Simmons could grab it.

"Oh, sure. I'll get up, and let my perfectly useless hand bang against me and anything I pass by, making me writhe in pain on the floor while you sit there and laugh at me."

Grif blinked. "Um...Okay, point taken. Well, there is another way you can get it back."

Simmons raised a dark brown eyebrow. "What? Does it involve Sarge shooting you full of holes?"

His comrade smirked. "You wish. What you have to do," he lowered his head so he was on Simmons's level, "is kiss me."

The maroon soldier laughed and grabbed a handful of Grif's curly, dirty blonde hair, pulling his lips to his.

"Can you be a little more creative next time?" He whispered in the other's ear as he heard the motor oil can thump down onto the table.

"Nah. Takes too much work. But," he leaned down and kissed the aching wrist, making Simmons shudder a little, "that's why I leave it all up to you."

"Didn't think you wanted to be my mom for the day," Simmons said with a chuckle as he watched Grif continue to move his lips over the injury.

Grif looked up at him with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Huh. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought you meant Sarge."

Simmons punched his friend's shoulder. "Grif, be a good little boy and shut up."


End file.
